


Soaring Ever Higher

by Kayndred



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Magic, Angels, Fallen Angels, Fallen Castiel, M/M, Mentions of Bobby Singer, Possibly:, Post Nuclear War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-27 01:02:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kayndred/pseuds/Kayndred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not the first time Dean’s had to go off to see something Sam’s had a vision about – he doesn't think it will be the last either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soaring Ever Higher

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into something even remotely Destiel flavored, and I'm very sorry to my best friend that there isn't any porn here. So you've been warned! There is no porn in this place! It turned into (I think) a gratuitous world building fic, and for that I am sorry.  
> On a lighter note, this is a gift to my bestie who doesn't own an AO3 account, and I hope she likes it as much as I liked exploring, however briefly, the world this fic is in.

**C** old, harsh, empty.

Before him a vast expanse of black and starlight that reaches to all corners of the known universe, forever and forever again. Behind him the stars burn into streaks of afterthought like the dust off a comets tail, no more a shadow than the briefest memory of an idea.

Onward, he falls.

He falls until the burn of absence is greater than the burn of descent, until his mind shuts out all else beyond the present, until there is only the fire of the cold chill against – inside – his bones, and the sting of loss in his mind.

For the makings of an age, he falls.

 

_His Father looks upon him with something that could be benevolence, could be love, if he could see it. He has already faced the gauntlet of his brothers, standing one and legion as he walked through their ranks, listening to their whispered chants, gaze set steadfastly forward. He marched the lines of the Garrison as only one of his kin before him had – and that had been an event of proportions far beyond his affair._

_Now he kneels before the Father, his Father, wings limp in supplication and eyes downcast. It is because of this that he cannot see his Father’s look of love._

_When his Father speaks he feels it in his bones, even though it’s no more than a whisper to his ears._

_“After much deliberation your fate has been decided, Castiel.” The chamber echoes and rings with the proclamation. Castiel can hear the murmur of the Infinite Sights just beyond the walls. “We will be sending you out into the Known Universe on a journey. “ **This is your destiny, Castiel. It has always been meant for you.** That whisper makes him still, even as his Eldest Kin place their hands on his shoulders and bring him to his feet, wheeling him about from the face of their Father before moving him quickly from the hall._

_They walk until the Gates stand solid before them, grey and insubstantial in the dawn. Michael presses a hand against the wide joining place of the doors, and Castiel can feel the power opening to him, warming and melting away until the gate swings open._

_As one Michael and Gabriel take a single step out, Castiel held between them. They turn to him, their eyes meeting over his head, and they speak in unison._

_“Castiel, you have been hereby removed from the ranks of the Garrison by the Word of the Lord Our Father, and shall be hence forth on a journey of undetermined duration to a place as yet unknown. When your mission has been completed you will be recalled to the Garrison, and then and only then will you be allowed to reenter the Kingdom of Heaven.”_

_With their speech completed they spun and stepped back within the confines of the Kingdom, the Gate swinging closed silently behind them._

_And Castiel fell._

 

For eons and eons – or maybe only seconds, heartbeats, breaths – Castiel plummets through the layers of stars and planets and nebulae, through the last burning lights of suns and asteroid belts.

And then he’s on fire.

The heat rips at his tightly shut eyes and reaches searing fingers toward his feathers, despite his wings being tucked as tightly as they can be against his back.

He tastes the atmosphere of the planet he is being pulled into, the static burn of electricity on his skin, of air – carbon nitrogen helium oxygen and a thousand other little particles – dry and hot and cold and shocking against his body.

He is falling. He is burning.

 

_There had been only one other angel from the Garrison to ever be sent out on ‘a journey of undetermined duration to a place as yet unknown’. He had been the Father’s favored son, the brightest of his creations, the most wonderful, the most perfect. There had been no other angel like him, and there never would be._

_But he too had been cast off into the Known Universe, to a place no one was privy to for a length of time no one knew._

_He had been sent away before Castiel had been brought into existence, his tale told as part of the history of the Host, although no one knew for what reason he had been discarded nor if he was ever actually supposed to return._

_Castiel didn’t know if he had been told it was his fate._

 .x.

**T** he red light district is more than just a section of the city dedicated to pleasure – be it of the body or the mind. It’s more than porn shops and whore houses, it’s an area allotted for every taboo under the sun. From drugs to skin selling, anything the heart desires can be found.

It’s also where Sam works.

The more mystical side of the district is blanketed by a perpetual layer of heavy perfume and the smells of magic at work, mostly due to the many hanging incense lamps and fat tower candles outside every door. The lighting is surreal and ghostly, the illumination fading from pastel pinks and blues to deep indigo and maroon, and when Dean lets his eyes pass over the darkest areas of shadow he can see the faintest glittering of inhuman eyes.

Witches Watchers.

The farther he walks down the streets, the closer he comes to the center of the mystic zone, the more he sees and the less they try to hide. Eyes become blurred shapes become solid forms become individual creatures, walking freely among the throng of potential customers. Soon Dean is pacing between a black-dusted-gold baboon with solid silver eyes and a Great Cat whose chin could rest on his head without strain. They follow him through the rabbit warren of streets to a haphazardly put together building just across from a small gated park.

The baboon, whose muzzle is at level with his elbow, reaches out and rings the doorbell while the Great Cat stand still on his other side, ears angled forward.

There’s a hiss and a click inside the door a beat before it swings open, the magic in it relaxing with a smoky sigh. The hallway beyond is lit by round glass bottles, each with a different colored light inside. Between each hangs a vine of glowing translucent flowers, just about as large as LED Christmas lights.

For a long while the lights and the faerie baubles are all he sees, for the heavy wooden doors in the walls are closed to him, their locks glowing a benign yellow in the thin shade. Sometimes he passes doors that are crafted from iron and embedded with intricate designs of copper, gold, and silver. These doors glitter with a crystallized purple sheen, and it is behind them that the secrets of the universe lurk.

Sam told him so.

Although time is moot in the halls he walks, Dean does recognize that he has been going for some time. The baboon and the Great Cat have yet to leave his side, but they are naturally silent and the plush carpet he treads on mutes his footsteps.

He’s just beginning to grow irritated with the winding pathways, as he knows that he won’t be able to find his way back by himself, when he turns a corner to find the door at the very end of the hall open. He can’t see what’s in the room, his vision obscured by a heavy silver cloth over the threshold beyond the door, but he’s relieved to finally have reached his destination.

His escorts him as he passes through the curtain, the fabric rippling off him like water, and then, at last, he’s inside.

The room is circular, paneled in wood that shines like gems have been crushed into it. The ceiling is cathedral high, although the room itself is only about as large as a sitting room. The carpet changes from red to blue to green the farther in he walks, observing the strings of beads, bells, bones and plants that hang from cross beams that separate the ceiling from the rest of the chamber.

At the far edge of the circle, buried under a mountain of thick blankets, is where he finds Sam.

The other man is curled on his side, only his head free of the heavy covers. One corner of his mouth twitches up as Dean crouches next to him, even though his eyes are closed.

“Hey Sammy,” his voice is gravel beat and low in the calm of the room. “How’re you feelin’, buddy?”

“Just tired.” Sam replies, one long fingered hand wiggling out to lace his fingers with Dean’s. “Did you like the Witches Watchers I sent for you? I’m getting better, Bobby says.”

Witches Watchers were physical manifestations of magical power, and the larger and more detailed a Watcher was the stronger the power given to it. When Sam had made his first one almost twenty years ago it had been a small, fat owl. Now, Dean knew, he was manifesting Great Cats and Syrrs Dragons and baboons just to keep from getting Witch Fever.

“I can believe it. Is that why you’re laid up, though? You sent those big Watchers to escort me all the way from Ironroot – that’s farther than half the House can get with help.” He can feel he frown drawing his brows down with worry, and is glad that Sam can’t see it, even if their physical connection lets him know exactly what Dean is feeling.

Sam snorts, fingers tightening around Dean’s. “Don’t be dumb. Gregor and Wesa have been stable for months. That’s why I sent them to get you.” His eyes slide open, pinning Dean with an intensity he’s rarely had directed at him. “No. I told you to come because I saw something last – well, last week, technically, but it cleared up last night.”

Dean huffs, irritated that Sam hadn’t contacted him immediately, but he’s aware of how fickle visions can be.

Something dark and purple tasting charges the air, Sam’s fingers warm where they’ve turned into anchors around his own.

“Are you ready?” _Are you ready?_ The echoed voice in his head carries the weight of indisputable knowing behind it, while his actual voice is guarded and weary.

“No, but go ‘head anyway.” Sam’s mouth quirks, but Dean doesn’t have any time to enjoy it before his vision goes dark.

And then blinding, searing white.

Fire dances over his skin as his body falls, hard and fast, the echoes of, ‘This is your destiny – It has always been meant for you’ ‘a journey of undetermined duration to a place as yet unknown’, and then the taste of ozone, of pure air, before a wind picked him up and shook him about.

 _Oh Angel Sword,_ a genderless voice whispers in his ear, _You have so much to do now._

The vision tapers off, fading into a smudge of color before Sam lets go of his fingers.

The room feels comforting and cool after the heat of the dream, and Dean is struck with the sudden desire to crawl into bed with Sam and never leave, the weight imparted on him by the voice dragging at his bones.

“You said it took a while to clear up.” He states, his throat strangely dry. “Which part?”

Sam’s eyes slide closed and be begins to brush his thumb over the back of Dean’s hand.

“The ‘Angel Sword’ part. For a long time it was just…” his nose scrunches, searching for the right word. “Vowels, a lot of it. Just noise and an idea, like the idea of a feeling. When it finally came through it just felt like you.”

Sam looks frustrated, a little, like he isn’t satisfied with his explanation but he can’t say it any better.

“Alright then.” Dean says, rocking back while using Sam’s hand as a tether. “What’d you get out of it?” He asks even though he knows Sam would tell him anyway.

“Something’s coming.” He says bluntly, eyes open to stare at Dean. “Something’s coming, and it’s big and old, and you have to meet it. If you don’t I don’t know what will happen, but it probably won’t be good.”

It’s not the first time Dean’s had to go off to see something Sam’s had a vision about – he doesn’t think it will be the last either. But it is the first time he’s been so firm about it, the first time Dean has felt an answering echo of his seriousness in his chest.

“How will I know when to go? Or where?” He doesn’t try to hide the resignation in his voice.

“You’ll see it.” Sam says, squeezing Dean’s hand once. “I’d drive in the fields, outside the city. Look to the stars.”

Dean stands and disentangles his fingers from Sam’s to ruffle his hair, before leaning down to press his lips against Sam’s forehead.

“Be safe, Witchkin.” He says as he exists the room.

“Be safe, Angelier.” Follows him down the hall, even after the thick wood door to Sam’s room closes.

 

He goes out driving for three days before he starts to feel anything out of the norm. It begins as a prickling feeling along his spine, a tightness in his skin. He spends more and more time driving in the nature preserves, frequenting the flat fields and open areas were wildflowers grow in droves.

It’s on the fourth day everything comes to a head.

He’s asleep, first, and then he’s not, and then he’s not sure why he’s moving but he is – he’s putting on his boots and shrugging into his jacket and then he’s out out out, in the car and driving away.

Look to the stars, Sam had said, so he does.

There’s a meteor shower cascading over head, waves of debris that turn summer sky blue and blood red in the murk of the atmosphere. He drives and drives and drives, breaking free from the city limits and thundering through the flat expanse of desert wasteland that separates civilization from the nature preserve that surrounds it.

The birch trees he drives through are thin and spindly, making up the outermost fringe of the reservation. Snow falls in thin slashes, mixing with brittle leaves and dead grasses, and for a long time this is all he drives through.

The meteors chase each other and he chases the meteors.

The pull in his bones leads him on for hours, through heavily wooded swaths of forest and over plains, taking him farther from the city and more toward the border that divided the Mid-South West preserve from the Great Northern preserve. The night seemed to stretch on around him forever, his vision swimming with the echoes of stars burning, his stomach plummeting with a false fall.

It’s the darkest hour of the night when he finally pulls up alongside an open space so large h can’t see the opposite edge. A hill rises gently near its center, the knee-high grass struck pale in the light of the moon. Dean sits, unnaturally still and tense in the driver’s seat, eyes locked on the expanse of open sky above the glen. Shooting stars burn tails of faint dust in the atmosphere, and in the aftermath of their meager light he waits.

He isn’t left alone for long.

It starts out as a faint pinprick in the great expanse of midnight blue, growing steadily larger the longer Dean watches. In what feels like heartbeats and probably isn’t the speck grows into a sphere the size of an orange, then a basketball. Dean barely has time to gasp before a pillar of while light is spearing the top of the hill, growing in brightness and intensity until white is all he sees, all he knows. The light sears his eyes until they burn and water and he can’t tell if they are open or closed, can’t tell if he’s blinking or staring.

Vaguely he’s aware of the ground shaking, of a ripple and a shockwave that rocks the car – but the light is so bright and all encompassing, his ears filled with a rushing noise like water and feathers and breathing, only a small part of him recognizes that it’s an explosion.

Eventually – hours? Days? – his vision returns to him, and as he regains his sight he realizes that I’s less because of natural adjustment and more because of the fading light. By the time he can see well enough to get out of the car he’s stumbling along its side and working his way toward the foot of the hill. The crown of it is decimated, the earth having rippled and cracked with the force of whatever had fallen from the sky.

He clambers up the gentle incline on shaking legs, his heart twisting in his chest. His bones feel heavy and cold sweat drips from the tip of his nose onto the ground.

The crater he comes to is deep and wide, and dirt trickles down in small avalanches from where his hands push on its edge.

At the center of the pit a ball of light writhes, bands of smoky luminescence lashing out like white solar flares. It boils and shifts, searing the ground around it almost into glass. It seems to twitch and turn toward him, the dirt-glass around it cracking with the shift. He stares at it and it feels like it stares back at him, and then with a startling snap of light and a sound like a gunshot, Dean is blind again.

His vision comes back more quickly the second time, the world solidifying into sky, earth, and man.

Winged, naked man.

The figure in the hollow is moon pale, his hair an ink dark shock atop his head. His eyes, as they bore into Dean’s, glow the electric blue of an engine warp core, bright enough to cast pale robin’s egg blue illumination on the skin of his cheeks. But it’s the wings that truly arrest him. They curve, the faintest of silvers, against his back and shoulders, rising well above his head and tapering down to hover a hairsbreadth above the earth.

For a millennium and a breath they stare at each other – Dean, sweat cooling and crouched at the top of the crater, the man standing tall and totally alien in the chill night air.

 _Angel Sword_. It’s a whisper and a shout in the air, in his mind, in his bones. _Angel Sword._

 _No._ His soul shouts in tandem with his heart. _Angelier._

The man standing below him tilts his head, his expression preternaturally blank, his mouth just as closed as it had been when he’d spoken to Dean’s mind.

_Angelier._

Something warm uncurls in his chest, filling him with light and the comforting buzz of _home._ A word pulls itself out of the murk of his mind, strong and bright and clear. It falls from his lips like a whispered prayer, a shout of joy, a lover’s croon.

“Castiel.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I started officially writing this at ALA this year, and my prompt was simply 'Destiel'. I don't think anyone will be surprised to find that the first image that came to mind turned into the last scene in the fic (because who wouldn't want naked/winged!Cas looking like a marble god after falling out of the sky?). I started this in the notepad section of my iPod, and that is exactly where I finished it. The Wincest was a bit of a surprise, and I didn't intend for it to be there, but I like it so it stayed. I planned on writing a Sastiel/Sassy fic of a similar length, but so far I haven't gotten around to it and nothing has been particularly inspiring (although the most recent Wincestiel+Samandriel episode definitely fed my muse.)
> 
> In Another Fandom: For anyone waiting/holding out for the continuation of the Some Nights series, know that I haven't forgotten you! I am working on part three, but (spoilers!): I'm having a terrible time with character voice. Specifically one sourwolf. So don't fret, I'm actively tackling it, it's just taking awhile for me to be satisfied with it. (It doesn't help that I've lost the document for it several times and have had to restart certain parts from scrap on multiple occasions. I blame witchcraft.)
> 
> So know that I still love you, people who've taken SN into their hearts, and I'm toiling for you!


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